


The Sword of a King

by chrystal896



Series: Never Call Me Poncy [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everybody Lives, Gen, Thranduil is a BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrystal896/pseuds/chrystal896
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Hobbit Kink Meme challenge. The humans and dwarves realize precisely why you should never mess with an Elven king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sword of a King

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for The Hobbit Kink Meme. Panhomarek wanted Thranduil being a wild BAMF warrior, him and all his Mirkwood kin during the Battle of the Five Armies. I've given it a shot. Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> You can find the challenge here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25160565#t25160565
> 
> For the record, this not beta-ed and I'm going with my faulty memory of how things went during the movie version of BotFA with some minor changes.

“Do not mistake my actions. I am not by nature an altruistic person,” Thranduil all but snarled as he leveled a steely glare at the human in front of him.

At least this one seemed to have both eyes open. It had been ridiculously easy for his small retinue of trainees to slip past that pathetic excuse for a night watchman. The greasy human was now fluttering around the man called Bard like an irritating sparrow and Thranduil longed to sink an arrow into the man’s unibrow.

“All the same, we welcome the aid, King Thranduil,” Bard said determinedly. “You have saved us. We owe you.”

If he hadn’t had thousands of years of training, Thranduil would have rolled his eyes. Humans were so quick to offer life debts. They never considered that they had very little that Thranduil would actually need. These humans would never understand the power he commanded within Mirkwood itself. They saw a King astride an elk commanding a host of elves clad in glittering golden armor and thought that was the sum of his host. He snorted at the thought. His “host” were younglings all.

Despite Tauriel’s claims, he was well aware what went on within his borders and without. The spiders were indeed growing bolder and he was not about to pull his best warriors for what could only be a minor skirmish with some angry dwarves. The gems in the mountains should be returned to his people and now that the dragon was desposed of, he should be able to reclaim them with little effort.

The contingent with him, were similar in age to his own son. They had done battle with the spiders, but much of their time on this earth had been spent training. Like his son, they had seen no true combat like the stories of old. Thranduil had. He had faced the wyrms of the north; he had fought in the last alliance alongside Elendil and Gil-Galad. He had fought and lost more than these petty humans before him, bitter about one burnt village.

As he sat in his tent and listened to Mithrandir prattle on about an army of orcs headed his way, he did not let his expression waver. He was the picture of grace and beauty. He was here to reclaim his jewels, nothing more. He did let himself become momentarily intrigued by the little Halfling that had braved his ire by freeing the dwarves. He supposed in a way, he should be thanking the small creature for indeed without their interference within the mountain, Smaug would still live.

As Mithrandir stormed off, irritated by his lack of response, as the aged wizard always did when nobody leapt to follow his every command, Thranduil motioned one of his young lieutenants forward and began murmuring in sindarin.

“Send word to the guard. Leave a small contingent behind to guard the caverns and any who remains within from the spiders. Pull all others warriors and gather as near to our company without drawing attention. Tell them they are finally called to battle.”

Thranduil wished he could match the feral grin that flashed across the young elf’s face as he bowed and all but scampered out. However, the leader of men, Bard, still looked at him and then Arkenstone laying on the table.

“Let me trade with Thorin,” He finally said, mistaking Thranduil’s orders to the guard. “He may listen to me, yet. There may not need to be a battle.”

Thranduil waved a lazy hand. If the human wanted to barter with the dwarf, he was more than welcome to try. Having met Thorin, he had no doubt that the human would fail. If the angry dwarf and his kin were all they faced, then Thranduil would be happy. He had refused to sacrifice his warriors to the dragon when it first took Erebor; he was reluctant to let one drop of elven blood be spilled in claiming what was rightfully his.

As Bard left, another elf entered his tent.

“Sire, there is a contingent of dwarves headed toward the valley. They bear the standards of Dain of the Iron Hills.”

More dwarves. Just what he needed.

The following morning, when Bard returned empty handed and incensed at the foolishness of dwarves, Thranduil ordered his younglings down to the field. They marched in perfect formation. If Thranduil had his way, they would get quite the education today.

Bard looked over the field and then at Thranduil in confusion.

“You have changed your armor?” He inquired, glancing at his own ragtag army of humans behind him.

Thranduil scoffed lightly. “That armor is for ceremony only. Blood and gold don’t mix well. Now you will see how the elves fight.”

“You intend to fight as well?”

Thranduil fixed him with a cold glare. “Where else should I be, but with my warriors?”

Bard, unfortunately, could not see the thin ice he was treading on. “But you are a king. Surely you would not place yourself in danger over a few dwarves.”

If anything, the King of Mirkwood’s gaze grew even more glacial. Without a response, he spurred his elk forward, moving through the columns of elves dressed in combat leathers and armed to the teeth.

When not even the promise of the return of the Arkenstone swayed the gold-sickened king under the mountain, Thranduil accepted that there would be fighting that day. And if his blood sang a little higher than normal, who was he to question it. He had not needed to fight the spiders; his patrols could handle them with ease. It would be nice to stretch his fighting muscles once more.

Sure enough, an army of dwarves crested the hill and seemed to outflank his small contingent of young warriors. What the humans and dwarves could not know was that this really was child’s play to one trained in his halls. 

Letting the insults of the barbarian dwarf Dain flow across his skin, Thranduil allowed himself to finally let a feral grin slip across his face. He would love nothing more than to behead that arrogant pig-riding, pigheaded dwarf. Fortunately, there was a new foe among them.

Seeing the were-wyrms rise up from the ground, Thranduil gestured impatiently and a young elf blew a short blast on his horn.

‘Take your human warriors and move to the South, back toward Dale,” He ordered brusquely, leaping lightly off his mount and joining his warriors on the ground. His elk moved off obediently, content to stay out of the bloodbath that was sure to follow. Thranduil hated it when Gandalf was right.

“We’re not leaving you here alone to fight, “ Bard said stubbornly, pulling his bow and nocking it quickly.

Thranduil stared up at the human with a wild light in his eye, “Trust me, young human, you and are your men are far safer to the south. Protect your city. Leave the orcs to me.”

As Bard opened his mouth, he noticed a movement to the side and turned, slack-jawed. A wave of brown and green had suddenly materialized next to their king. Each warrior had the same wild look in their eye as Thranduil: their hands already gripping swords and bows alike. The elven contingent had nearly tripled in size and Bard swallowed self-consciously.

Gesturing impatiently, Thranduil dismissed him and turned to face the orcs as they poured down the mountainside. The dwarves put up a row of shields and Thranduil scoffed. Trust a dwarf to hide. 

With a battle cry that had no been heard by the likes of men since the days of Elendil, the elves made their presence known.

The fight was brutal from the start. Bard had never seen anything like it.

In between his own bouts of fighting, which was far less than he was expecting to be honest, he watched the pitched battle between the elves and the orcs. For the first time, he understood just how much the elves hated the orcs for there was no quarter given.

Every now and again, he caught a flash of silver in a sea of brown, green, and black. Thranduil’s circlet. The only difference he had allowed between himself and the elves he fought with.

And fight they did.

Each elf on the field was a whirling, seething, armed tornado, with teeth bared in a perpetual snarl. In their wake they left nothing bodies and blood and severed limbs, usually heads. 

Bard shook his head and tried to focus his eyes again. The amount of elves seemed to change every minute. He had no idea how that many elves whirling faster than eye could see could work in such perfect concert.

Thranduil was the most feral of the lot. The king seemed to be everywhere at once. At one point he had even appeared at Bard’s side during the fight.

Bard stared up at him in consternation. The Elven King was covered in gore head to toe, black blood dripping from his swords, which made the whiteness of his savage grin more pronounced.

“There are orcs headed up the road to Dale, protect your people,” the elf snapped before whirling and slicing an arrow out of the way before using his swords to decapitate the orc wielding the bow.

And with that, the king had vanished back into the sea of black, leaving Bard to round up his meager troops and move them up the hill. He had no idea how Thranduil had known about the troops movements, but Bard found himself face to face with another faction, just as predicted.

His men fought bravely, but it was a losing battle, Bard could tell. They were shortly to be overrun and then the lives of his daughters and son and all else who had trusted him to keep them safe would be forfeit.

An orc’s head landed at his feet and Bard looked up to see an elven warrior standing stock still in chaos. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and the warrior nodded his slightly in acknowledgement. Before Bard could say anything, the elf had blitzed past him, blowing past his own fighters as if they had been nothing but pebbles under his feet. 

His men froze, watching this wild creature fight within their midst. Blades came within a hairsbreadth of their heads, only to lop off an orcish body part instead. The group of five fighters, Bard included, who had been separated from the pack, watched as one elf decimated no less than 20 orcs in the pace of 10 breaths. The elf darted between them, moving almost too fast to see, but like his king, his exuberant grin was the only part not covered in blood.

The elf was enjoying this.

With another battle cry, the elf darted down an alleyway, leaving the five fighters standing in a growing pool of blood. The battle sounds faded in the distance and all his fighters stared at him in wonder.

“Remind me not to call them poncy elves ever again.” Dorion said emphatically, breaking the silence that the elf had left behind.

As one the group nodded and fanned out to make sure the streets of Dale were clear.

 

The battle finally ended and healing tents had suddenly materialized on the field before the mountain. The wounded started pouring in. Dwarves, men, and even a handful of elves, none had escaped injury in the battle for the Lonely Mountain.

“Where is Thranduil?” Gandalf demanded as he strode into one of the healing tents.

“Haven’t seen him,” Bard said curtly, helping one of the women move an injured man to a cot.

Bard had managed to escape relatively unscathed.

Gandalf looked to the north with a faint glimmer of hope. “Perhaps he went to Ravenhill.” He murmured, pushing his way out of the tent.

Ignoring the old man, Bard continued to help with wounded. He may not be injured but he had plenty of wounded and dead on his hands that must be dealt with.

Thranduil had indeed gone to Ravenhill. He had followed the insolent whelp known as his son when he had decided to be heroic and then he and a group of six had decimated the third and final surge of orcs that had tried to take Ravenhill.

“What do you think, Imrohil?” Thranduil asked as they surveyed the piles of bodies they had managed to rack up.

“I think you are getting slow in your dotage, your excellency,” the elf in question snarked, wiping off one of his blades before sliding it home. “Surely you can boast killing no more than 100 of these wretched creatures. I on the other hand, must have killed at least half as many more than that within my first hour.” 

Imrohil’s saving grace was that he had known and fought with his sire through more battles than either would care to admit and Thranduil was loathe to kill one of his best warriors.

“My lord,” a voice cried from above and Thranduil glanced up. Outlined against the darkening sky was his son, motioning him upward. Still running on a battle high, Thranduil and his company made quick work of climbing the mountainside to find his son with three dwarves.

“They still live, Ada. But barely.”

Kneeling next to the dwarven king, Thranduil placed a hand on his chest and called on what little healing power he had within him.

“Imrohil, take the fair haired one. Legolas – the dark haired one. We must move them down below,” he ordered curtly. Spying the Halfling, and then wondering how the hell such a small creature even made it up this high, Thranduil motioned for another member, Iolath, to carry the hobbit.

Hefting the dwarven king into his arms, Thranduil made his way down the side of Ravenhill, content in the knowledge that when Thorin found out who had saved his life, he would be angry beyond belief. He did so love causing mischief when he could.

They rose quite a stir when they whirled into camp. All eight of them were still covered in the blood of their enemies while carrying what remained of dwarven royalty. Thranduil’s blood was still singing and he snarled in satisfaction as the humans scattered before him. He knew he must look a sight.

Laying their burdens down in the healing tent, the warriors gathered to Thranduil some who still had their blades in their hands. Thranduil also had pulled out his own to inspect them for damage. All had a fey, feral look to them, battle hungry and ready for more action.

“My lord?” A voice sounded from behind him and Thranduil spun around, sheathing his swords in one smooth movement. The man who had somehow taken charge of this ragtag group of humans, immediately took a step back at the look of wildness about the king.

“What?” He snapped irritably, stepping away from his warriors and toward the human, much to the Bard’s dismay.

“Gandalf was looking for you earlier. I believe he wants to start negotiations in the morning.”  
Thranduil immediately switched the warrior side of his mind and focused on the man in front of him.

“You may tell Mithrandir that I will be in my tent and that he is welcome to join me once he has seen to his companions.” 

Bard blinked at the sudden calm voice that had issued from an elf he had seen beheading orcs with a fierce joy not hours earlier.

“Yeah. I’ll do that,” he finally manage to stutter out, his eyes still staring at Thranduil in wonderment. 

Thranduil chose to ignore the look and stalked toward his tent. While he enjoyed the battle as much as the next elf, he was quite looking forward to being clean again. Legolas fell into step beside him.

“So that is what you looked like when you fought with Gil-Galad,” the prince murmured thoughtfully. Thranduil snorted lightly.

“My son, this was but a skirmish compared to that battle.”

Legolas grinned at him before poking at the once blond hair that was now stiff with orc blood. “Skirmish it may have been, Ada, but I daresay you still had fun.”

Thranduil swatted the hand away and rolled his eyes at his son’s antics. It was definitely time to get clean.

The following morning dawned cold, clear, and crisp. Thranduil’s elves had worked through the night with the uninjured dwarves, moving bodies and already several pyres were burning. 

Once again, he was dressed in his royal robe, all traces of blood had been washed away. His tent had also apparently become neutral territory and was filled to the brim with dwarves, humans, and elves. He wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened but suspected Gandalf was behind it. 

The wizard in question was smiling benevolently at the assembled group. Bard from Dale kept darting unsure glances at the elven king, having difficulty rectifying the warrior from the previous day with this cold, dispassionate king beside him. Legolas stood behind Thranduil no doubt with a smug smile on his face. Thranduil risked a glance backward and inwardly sighed when Legolas did indeed seem very, very smug.

The dwarves were represented by Balin, Dwalin, and the one called Bofur, since the Thorin would no doubt be unable to deal with matters of state for a while. Dain was in attendance too and Thranduil noticed that relations seemed strained between the two groups of dwarves. Given the choice, Thranduil made a tacit decision to support Balin. He was still disappointed he had not managed to sink an arrow into Dain on the battlefield.

As if sensing his bloodthirsty thoughts, Balin turned to him with a smile. “We thank you for your assistance with the battle, King Thranduil. And for returning Thorin to us alive.”

Both Dwalin and Bard snorted at that and then stared at each other in mild amusement. 

“Assistance?” Dwalin drawled. “King Thranduil tore through the orcs like they were pieces of parchment.”

Bard found himself nodding along in agreement. The Elven King in a rage was definitely a sight to behold. 

Thranduil fought down a smile at the pronouncement. The other races present were just now beginning to understand why you should never underestimate an elf from Mirkwood. He had a feeling that trade relations would be much different from now on. He also noticed that the tattooed one had managed to use his title instead of his typical derogatory comment. Perhaps the only way to teach these dwarves proper manners was to act the barbarian king he was reported to be. He’d have to keep that in mind.

“Yes, thank you, Dwalin,” Balin said with annoyance. “I’m quite sure the elven king is aware of his skill on the battlefield.”

“Now, on to the matter of reestablishing Erebor and Dale,” Balin continued looking back and forth between Thranduil and Bard who was trying very hard not to make eye contact with the elven king. He might have slayed the dragon, but Thranduil had proven himself a force to be reckoned with and that meant Bard was going to be very, very careful with his words from now on.

Bilbo just sat there and looked around with wide-eyes. He had no idea how he had become part of this part of the tale, only knowing that he was no warrior compared to the rest of the beings in the tent around him. But Balin had asked him and he would see it through. Despite the narrow, calculating looks he was receiving and Bilbo gulped suddenly as he realized just whom he had stolen from back in the caverns of Mirkwood. The king smirked coldly at him and Bilbo suddenly wished he had had a more severe injury. The thought on his mind was the same as everyone else who had seen the king fight, save his son.

What exactly could this woodland king do?

Thranduil smirked as if he could read the minds of those around him. What could he do, indeed?


End file.
